


Avowal

by mstigergun



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dalish, Dalish Inquisitor, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mstigergun/pseuds/mstigergun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lavellan leaves his clan to head to the Conclave, he makes a promise to his sister that may be broken even as he makes it. Basically, Dalish Inquisitor feelings and internal conflict (but with a happy ending!). Dorian/Lavellan. Spoilers throughout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avowal

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of a daily writing prompt challenge meant to create micro-fiction (whoops!). I've done my best with Dalish culture/norms, but I'm sure there are mistakes that a more experienced writing in the fandom will spot immediately. This particular Inquisitor Lavellan has never felt particularly at home with his clan and has a rather hard time feeling settled with his own identity. His criticisms of Dalish culture are meant to be read as coming from someone who is a bit... bitter and reactionary, more than being accurate reads. 
> 
> Spoilers throughout for Inquisition. In this particular take, Clan Lavellan got the happiest outcome of the war table mission(s), which I stumbled into blindly in my first playthrough.

When he leaves, it is with a promise on his lips that has already soured.  _Be wary_ , his sister implores.  _You must stay true to yourself. Already, you travel cloaked in lies; watch that they do not pull you deeper. You cannot trust these shems, da'len. Promise you will guard yourself. Promise you will not let them change you_.

And so he does, a solemn avowal of his place in Clan Lavellan. A promise to return, to remain exactly as Asharil expects him to be -- as they all expect him to be.

That he had been thinking of leaving of his own volition is not something he shares, not while his sister clasps his hands in her warm palms, eyes bright, not while the Keeper watches, while the clan listens. Asharil, filled to bursting with the light of pride, in all he had become after the faltering steps of his adolescence.

A First who could lead her brother back from the clutches of the shems and flat ears who had tempted him away from his place within the Dalish was a leader with a bright future, after all. But even she could not unknot the disquiet that lay, tangled, in his heart.

And so he left, desperate to claw his way out from under the weight of her expectations, of the Keeper's expectations, of his people's expectations. Like carrying a rucksack of stones, balanced carefully on his shoulders, the straps biting hard into his skin. And yet, if he stumbled, if he hesitated, it would all come tumbling to the ground.

For now, a burden he could ease from his shoulder.

Even as he made his promise to Asharil, a part of him knew he would never again pick up the burdens he set down in leaving. Once out from under their weight, his breath came a little too easily, his shoulder rested a little too squarely, to ever again submit.

*****

_Little brother, I have heard of what passed at the Conclave, as I have heard what they now call you. Herald of Andraste! Already, they try to steal parts of you away from us. And while I am certain that you act with the integrity that has always made me so proud to call you brother, I caution you to remember your promise. They will seek to make you less of what you are and more of what they want, now that you are a part of their tangled mess. Dareth shiral, brother. All my love, Asharil._

*****

It's madness, the whole rush of it. An endless stream of demons and new faces and the mystery of what Lavellan is, and how he became that way, right at the very centre of it. Currents moving around him he cannot fathom, not truly, as he is tugged along.

And yet he is free, and he has been given a way out. The realization builds in him slowly, a half-formed thought about his sister, as he hunts rams to feed starving refugees, as he stands with a dwarf at one side, a qunari at the other, and an apostate mage at his back, fighting tooth and nail to restore order in a land gone wild. Asharil, if she stood by his shoulder instead of Solas, would have concluded their business and insisted they retreat. Leave the shems to themselves.

But Asharil isn’t here, and the thoughts about what she would expect grow fuzzy, like clouds in the distance.

He falls through time with a man so utterly self-assured and clever and handsome that Lavellan entirely forgets that, on principle alone, he ought to hate the mage. He begins to build something, to carve out a place in the complex mess of a world he has stepped into, that has reached out and grabbed him and refuses to let go. Still, with the pressures of the Inquisition, the looming threat over all of Thedas, it never feels like he carries stones on his back.

Cassandra asks, once, if he is eager to go back home, and before Lavellan is tempted to lie, he says, firmly, "I hated it."

He only feels sick inside for a moment, and that is at the truth of it, more than anything else. And he wonders, distantly, how long that has been true.

But broken promises -- whether promises he has broken only recently or ones that have always been broken, like rotten support beams giving way after holding for far longer than they were obligated to -- cannot hold his attention for long. After all, there are alliances to secure, rifts to close, and there is always, always a world to save.

*****

_Da'len, I worry. We caught word of the destruction of Haven long before your Lady Montilyet saw fit to inform us of your well-being. I stayed up for several nights in vigil, asking Mythal to keep you from harm. In the later hours, when my heart great darker and more desperate, I turned my prayers to Falon'Din, to guide you through the darkness. I cannot say who answered my prayers, but rejoice nonetheless that you are well. And made Inquisitor! Such peculiar titles for one of our own._

_Again, dearest brother, I implore you to remember who you are. You have been placed among the highest echelons of the societies that have always sought to destroy us, who see us as an undying threat -- the coal that could become a wildfire. They will aim to strip you of who you are. Guard yourself against them. As always, I am here to offer guidance. I only wish you would write back. All my love, Asharil._

*****

He falls in love. Entirely. Hopelessly. Foolishly. He thinks once about how much Asharil would disapprove, but only for a moment: it is immediately blotted out by the dual burn of affection and fury. Fury at a world that would ask Dorian to wear a mask until the end of his days; astonishment at his perfect bravery.

And if Dorian is willing to fight for what's in his heart, it is a battle Lavellan will take up as well.

Despite the fact that the world is, in starts and fits, falling down around them, red templars and undead monstrosities and tears in the sky a sickly, preternatural green, Lavellan is happy. Impossibly, foolishly happy. The Inquisition begins to mend the broken places of the world.

When he falls into the Fade, he isn't threatened with the ruin of his people; his fear has stopped being that he will disappoint his sister, that the Dalish will lose their way of life. He doesn't even think to ask for Mythal's guidance through the darkness of terror.

What begins to wake him in the night in the weeks after Adamant, heart hammering, mouth dry, hands usually so steady suddenly trembling, is the graveyard tucked away by the sickly shore. His companions, dead. His companions, terrified.

The world gone dark and twisted under Corypheus's hands, misshapen by his malice until all of the things Lavellan loves so dearly are corrupted. And all of the things Lavellan loves, he discovers, include much more than a small group of elves in a small part of the world.

 _Don’t let them change you_ , he remembers Asharil insisting, and he has to wonder, awake in the dark of the night, turning over his own darknesses, if it was his companions who changed him, broadened him and  _bettered_  him, or the world itself. Or if he was always already different than he ought to have been, and the truth of him is just now revealed.

*****

_Even here, in our corner of the world, I would be remiss if I didn't notice there is now an elf standing behind the shem throne in Orlais. While a flat ear's dedication to our people is questionable, surely it is better to have her hand offering guidance than not. I know you have been kept abreast of developments here, dear brother, and your own guiding hand has saved many lives. Our Clan faces a very different future now. We have standing in Wycome. Whether this is for the good of our people remains to be seen. I have my doubts, but the Keeper is certain we must, to use her words, step forth from the shadows and become part of the larger world. I only wish you could come back and join us again. That, I think, would assuage my doubts._

_No matter, da'len. I hope that, in the middle of the politics and challenges of your own position, in the midst of the quagmire of shemlen politics, alliances, and schemes, you find time to seek out more of our people. It would do you well to remind yourself of what you have left behind, and what you must continue to carry with you._

*****

He does seek out the Dalish, as he and his companions try to bring order to the Exalted Plains. It is not a wise choice.

Hands shaking back at their camp, he tears off his vambraces and throws them to the ground. Blackwall keeps a careful distance, watching from the shadows as Lavellan throws himself down by the fire, forehead pressed hard against his hands in an uncharacteristic outburst of anger.

"Not quite the warm welcome you were expecting? And speaking of warmth…" Dorian sits at his side, feet edging close to the flames.

"No," Lavellan says, eyes fixed on the coals until the afterimages burn themselves into his eyelids. If he were in better spirits, he might chide Dorian for being perpetually cold, but he’s not, mind picking away at the conversation with Keeper Hawen like working an old scab. "There's nothing quite like being scolded for my failures as  _one of the people_  after clearing out a horde of demons. Because what really matters is that graves remain undisturbed in a perfect imitation of rituals we don't even understand, not that we ensure corpses aren't reanimating and haunting the hills. Priorities!"

Dorian shifts beside him. "As we know," he says, cheerfulness calibrated precisely to diffuse the simmering rage making Lavellan sick and jumpy, "reanimated corpses  _can_  have their uses. Perhaps the Keeper used them to, say, track down stray halla?"

In the shadows, Blackwall barks a laugh, and, despite himself, Lavellan feels a chuckle grow in his own throat in kind.

He huffs a resigned sigh and shoots Dorian the smallest of smiles. "Very possible, Dorian. Rumour has it that halla respond best to being herded by the spirits of the dead -- and as Dalish like to base every possible thing on rumour and vague speculation, undead halla herders makes about as much sense as the rest of it." And, with a forcible turn of his thoughts, he reaches down and picks up his vambraces, brushing off dirt and setting to scrubbing ichor from the leather.

Later, when the fire has died down and Dorian already gone to bed complaining about the perpetual cold and grime and the omnipresent smell of burning bodies, Lavellan allows his thoughts to turn to his sister. If Asharil has known he'd disturbed the graves of the people, she would have had his head. No matter his reasons -- no matter that they were sound.  _We must preserve who we are, brother. Our rites matter._ _Through them, we honour our ancestors and our gods. We strengthen our people_.

No, thinks Lavellan, we don't. We imitate rituals we don't understand to make ourselves feel better, but no one's listening. If anyone did listen once upon a time, they certainly aren't around to listen any longer. He sighs and says, entirely to himself, to taste the words in his mouth, to know them, "I would see my people focus on our  _living_  culture, rather than trying to resurrect the ghosts of a past that barely even belongs to us."

He has chosen to shoulder a different weight: not of his clan's expectations, but of his expectations for what his people  _could_  be.

And of course it is then that Cole appears at his elbow, floppy hat cutting a deep shadow across his face in the dying light of the fire. "Homesick and sick of home," the boy intones, fingers knotted together as he bends close to Lavellan's ear, "A place without heart, a heart without place -- atoned, alone,  _abelas_. Should home hurt this much? Leaving should help, but it doesn’t; the hurt follows like a kicked dog. Never alone, and yet  _always_  alone." A pause, then, “But you’re not alone, bright and cherished as a full moon, guiding light through the dark. Even  _she_ thinks of you that way, proud until the tips of her fingers tingle, until she thinks she’ll burst with it all. My brother, leading nations;  _my_ brother.”

Lavellan reaches, clasps Cole’s cold hands with one of his own. “You’re a good friend,” he murmurs. But the good friends make this harder for him, not easier; knowing that he is doing right by the world makes it harder, not easier. Seeing how far he has come, feeling how perfectly he fits into this role, with these people, makes it all infinitely harder, not easier. Because he has changed, and there is no going back. He knows that now. If he makes it through the rest of this, he will never again be small enough to fit into the space carved out for him in the clan.

He is more, now, than he was. His promise has amounted to nothing, and yet he can’t bring himself to feel sorry.

*****

_I put ink to paper to tell you about Atlen and Linyla’s hand-fasting, about the incredible stag that Kalora brought in, but I cannot write that letter while a question –_ this _question – burns at the forefront of my mind. A question that needs asking, a rumour that needs addressing._

 _I’m not certain how to best proceed, dear brother. If you were here, with the clan, we could simply sit and speak. However, to try and offer guidance on this kind of subject at this kind of a distance – it is a challenge, to say the least. I will simply describe how the questions came to my mind. Make of it what you will. A noblewoman who has taken an interest in the Wycome council came up to me after our meeting and asked how I felt, knowing that my brother was having relations with a Tevinter magister, when Tevinter took such wanton pleasure in gutting our heritage, in enslaving our people, in leaving us a husk of the nation we once were. I did not know what to say, brother. I was at a loss. I_ remain _at a loss._

_Although I have little hope of hearing back – you never write, da’len, and it worries me – I will put the question plainly: are you involved with the magister?_

*****

He wishes people would stop referring to him as Lavellan. It feels like a lie.

Especially after the Temple of Mythal. Especially then.

Offered the wisdom of his people, the lost heritage the Dalish struggled for centuries to reclaim, and he turned aside. A chance to speak with ancient elves – true emissaries of the past, of the way things were – and he turned  _aside_.

He almost considers writing back to Asharil, then. Once he even puts pen to paper and begins.  _Asharil, sister, I am, indeed, having relations with the Tevinter mage (please note: not a magister; a common enough error). However, as it turns out, the great and sprawling elven empire fell to the same politicking you so happily decry as indicative of shemlen shortsightedness and greed. It would seem our empire was much like any other: corrupt, bloated, unjust. And Tevinter came into the picture rather late, according to the ancient elf with whom I spoke. Imagine that!_

He throws it in the fire after he punctures the paper with the force of his exclamation point.

There is hardly time to be angry, hardly time to be this curious mixture of disappointed and relieved – disappointed that the elves of old weren’t greater than he’d suspected, relieved that he wasn’t, indeed, failing to hold up the hopes and dreams of generations of his own people. That burden fell squarely on the shoulders of the ancients and their pettiness.

Instead, Lavellan turns his attention to Corypheus and bringing an end to this whole damned mess. He almost jots down a note to have Leliana send to his sister, in case his battle with the would-be god and the mad magister’s pet archdemon doesn’t go quite as planned, but he discards the idea. What could he say?  _I have found my place in the world, and it is as far away from aravels and vallaslin and who you want me to be as I could manage. I have changed, and it is, I think, for the better._

No, not that.  _You continually implore me to be true to who I am, and yet fail to see that I was truest to who I am when I left our clan, only to be hunted down and dragged back by my insistent sister. That I am_ myself _here. That I was never coming back. I_ am _never coming back._

In the end, all of the things he could say fail him, and so he passes nothing to his spymaster. Lavellan arms himself for the battle he has been working toward for the past year and a half, pulling on the hardy leathers and mail arms and vambraces that mark him, now, as a warrior, no longer just a Dalish hunter stumbling bare-footed and confused through events larger than anything he could imagine.

“I’m glad to have you at my side,” he says to Dorian, catching him by the elbow and pulling him aside as they move, certain and with a heavy finality, toward the Breach, surrounded by soldiers and companions and the faces that have come to define Lavellan’s life.

“Really? Not worried I’ll swoop in at the last moment, claim victory, and take all the glory for myself?” Dorian smiles conspiratorially, leans a little closer, and heat rolls off his skin in waves. Lavellan pauses for a moment, thinking of slow afternoons, sunlight streaming through precisely-made windows. Pools of light and warmth.

“Let’s be honest, Dorian,” he says finally, straightening, pulling himself from the magnetic pull of the man. “As impressive as you are on the battlefield – and you  _are_  flashy – I’ve got the pointed deadly things,” he jerks his chin back at his daggers, “and the glowing hand. I’m fairly confident that all the glory will belong entirely to me.”

“Likely,” huffs Dorian, “Always upstaging me when it comes to heroics and the stuff of legend. Although,  _amatus_ , do take care not to focus too singularly on the glory: in those stories, the hero always dies horribly, and I’d rather you didn’t. Die  _at all_ , to be completely clear.”

“I’ll do my best,” Lavellan says. “I promise.”

And this time, he means it.

*****

_I’ve heard of your victory, brother, and that you intend to remain Inquisitor. Please expect my arrival shortly. Until we meet again, Asharil._

*****

He has never been more aware of how he has changed until his sister walks, bare-footed, through the main gates of Skyhold, long dark hair piled on top of her head, staff strapped across her thin shoulders. She wears thick grey furs, cloths dyed with plants Lavellan can name just by particular tint of the fabric, everything about her shaped by people with whom he grew up.

The thought that she walks with the whole clan alongside her, even in their absence, makes the back of his neck prickle with cold sweat.

Asharil’s eyes, golden as a hawk’s, survey the keep. When they settle on him, standing in the yard, waiting with arms crossed tightly across his chest, he can feel himself become that long-limbed and awkward boy she dragged back from Ansburg at fifteen. If he thinks of himself through her eyes, he can see how he might look a stranger: dressed in clothes the likes of which she would never have seen in the Clan, surrounded by a cold stone keep, proud banners proclaiming Skyhold’s position as headquarters of the Inquisition fluttering in the wind, a gold-laden advisor at his elbow. Except for the vallaslin, Lavellan thinks, he doesn’t  _look_  Dalish. He doesn’t look like the brother she sent away.

All of this, he knows Asharil notices. She has always noticed these things, has always been the sort to fuss if a hair was out of place, if he came back with a scrape after a hunt, whether from an errant branch or claw. She has always seen him, even when he wanted to hide.

“ _Andaran athish’an_ ,” he offers stiffly when she draws close enough, his heart hammering against his ribs. As if seeing his sister is even more unsettling than meeting nobles with hundreds of soldiers at their disposal, with influence enough to start – or stop – wars.

Asharil says nothing, blinking slowly, as a predator might while eyeing prey.

But because he has surrounded himself with exceptional people, the silence doesn’t stretch too long. “Lady Lavellan,” Josephine says, sensing the jagged tension in the air, “it is truly a pleasure to have you at Skyhold. I am –”

It’s enough to break Asharil’s attention. She shifts, a smile curving her lips, warm as the embers of a fire. “You’re Lady Montilyet. Our people owe you our gratitude, for helping to smooth our many difficulties at Wycome.  _Ma serannas_ , my lady. I hope to meet Commander Cullen and offer our thanks as well. We have already sent a gift of gratitude to Divine Victoria for her aid as well. For you,” her nimble hands went to her own throat, from which she plucked a shining silver necklace studded with polished antler and rare gems, “made by our finest craftswoman, a master of fine metalwork.”

And, with that, his sister sweeps into Skyhold and handily wins the hearts of Lavellan’s advisors and closest companions. She is, from the moment she turns her attention away from Lavellan and to the people filling Skyhold, the picture of charm and warmth, plying his closest friends with thoughtful gifts – a glorious fur coat for Cullen, a singular greatsword for Bull that had been wielded by one of the last standing elven warriors at Halamshiral, an ancient Warden crest found during a hunt in a desolate part of the Marches. Even Dorian, who Lavellan half-expected she might murder on sight, is subject to her gracious charm: she gifts him a rare tome detailing the particularities of rare branches of Dalish magic. “And I trust,” she says warmly, as she pushes the text into the mage’s hands, “that my brother has extended the welcome of my clan. Any time you wish to visit, you must. It would be a pleasure to show you our ways.”

He watches the whole interaction, dazed, in a kind of fog that persists through the entire evening and into the next day. Asharil offers Cole a ride on her hart, which he gleefully accepts, and Lavellan watches that afternoon, from a perch in the upper yard, as she helps the boy up, guides them around the yard by the stables.

She is utterly charming to everyone around him, and yet she doesn’t speak to Lavellan. It’s as though he’s invisible. He wonders, distantly, if this is how Cole felt, before becoming more human – more  _permanent_.

He’s grown accustomed to being the person upon whom others fixate: the Inquisitor, the savage Dalish elf playing at civility, the Herald of Andraste. When guests arrive at Skyhold, their eyes track his every moment. When he travels elsewhere, into Val Royeaux or to fetes or celebrations, he is always observed. At first, he felt exposed under the scrutiny, used to hiding in shadow instead of standing strong under the light and, while he cannot say he likes being the focus of so much attention at all times, he has certainly become used to the weight of someone’s gaze always being on him.

To have his sister so thoroughly appear to just – fail to notice him. At first, he is thrilled: he can avoid the inevitable confrontation, her accusing stare, the judgment, the  _you’ve changed, da’len, you’ve broken your promise_.

Then it begins to drive him mad, like an itch under his skin that he cannot scratch.

She has been at Skyhold for several days when he finally gives in and asks her, while she’s sitting with Varric and trying rather fruitlessly to learn the rules of Wicked Grace, to come speak with him. The smile that has been on her face stiffens, but she nods and follows him to his quarters.

“I’m amazed you can sleep,” she says finally, wandering around his room, “with this kind of grandeur all around you.”

“Well, I do. And I sleep very well, thank you.” His hands curl into tense shapes, knuckles white.

Asharil glances at him, a wary, careful look. Fleeting, as if approaching a wild animal. “You’ve done well for yourself, little brother. You’ve done well for our people. For  _all_  people.”

“You’re not terribly disappointed to see I haven’t set up a shrine to Andruil in the gardens? That I haven’t filled the yard with aravels and halla?” The words taste bitter, like spindleweed roots, and he is half-surprised to hear how sharp they come out. Words like knives.

But his sister doesn’t flinch. “Do you remember what I asked you to promise, da’len, when you left?”

Ah, so here it is, finally. He says nothing, gut roiling like he’s been drinking maraas-lok with Bull again, except with none of the more pleasant effects.

“I asked you to be true to yourself.” She pauses, then sighs, moving closer. Asharil reaches, suddenly, to grasp his hands in her own, but he twists away.

Another sigh, this one edged with frustration, but she continues, “I believe I said a few things about shems and watching yourself around them, true enough, but that was rather hasty. Working in Wycome has been… enlightening. There are many good men and women in the world, although I still think – well, it’s of no matter. And I must say, brother: I  _like_  Dorian. He’s… charming. Fussy, yes, and I think he might faint if he ever did come to stay with our clan, but I like him and it’s obvious that he dotes on you. You have done well.”

For all the power he has at his disposal, for all the decisions Lavellan makes on a daily basis about things that change the shape of Thedas, he is still capable of being shocked, and  _this_  – from  _her_  – shocks him.

“You – like Dorian?” he asks, numbly.

“Yes,” Asharil says, firmly.

“And you’re not disappointed that I don’t seem more Dalish?”

Her eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “Da’len, you  _are_  Dalish. There’s no changing that. There’s no test, no standard by which you are measured and deemed fit or unfit. You just  _are_.”

“I don’t believe in the gods,” he continues, growing bolder, as if pulling that first stone from the dam has caused the rest to burst open. “And I think many of our customs are out-dated and backwards.”

“You haven’t believed in the gods for a long time, and you’ve always questioned the way things are. This is hardly a surprise to me, even if I do sometimes find that quality a little… grating. As a First, sworn to uphold, protect, and nurture our traditions.” But her final words end with a smile, a graceful shrug. A promise that their differences needn’t divide them.

It must all be a ruse, part of him thinks wildly. And so, desperately, he offers up his last fear. “And– you’re  _not_  here to drag me back to the clan?”

This gets a reaction from her. She snaps out a laugh, bright and cold as moonlight. “If I thought I could steal you away from your advisors and companions, I might be tempted, if only to have you by my side while I navigate the convoluted political waters in Wycome and the Marches. Mythal knows I could use some help, and you certainly have enough experience with negotiations and mediations involving groups larger than forty people.”

“But your letters,” he finishes.

“Oh,” Asharil sighs, “well, I worry. I worry about you all of the time, because you’re my brother and because I love you. And I would never want you to lose sight of who you are – but it has become entirely evident that you haven’t. You stand among great people and you  _lead_ , da’len, without compromising who you are. That’s what I worried about, my precious brother, not whether or not you would sleep in an aravel, for Mythal’s sake.”

And, with that, she tugs at his shoulder and pulls him into a tight embrace. He is shocked enough that he stands, stiff, for a moment, before allowing himself to unfold in her arms. She smells like pine boughs and moss, like being tended to after scraped knees and the broken hearts of childhood. “If you’d ever written back, I could have told you that instead of having you stew at a distance, silly boy,” she murmurs against his ear, squeezing him hard, once, as a chastisement.

“To be fair,” he says, “I was saving the world. Letter-writing tends to become a secondary priority.” He pauses, looks at her hard. They are, he thinks, standing on either side of a bridge and, if he has changed, it might as well be for the better, so he lets a smile tug up one side of his mouth. If it comes out a little forced, Asharil forgives him, and just smiles back.

“Once,” Lavellan says, “my saving the world even involved chasing a halla across the Exalted Plains because it was a prized and beloved  _golden_ halla. Has anyone told you about that yet?”

“A golden halla?” Her forehead creases with skepticism.  

“Ah, let me tell you the whole story. Sit.” They settle down by the fire together, and Asharil tucks her legs beneath her, propping her chin up against her hand, as a child might when listening to a story. How often he sat like that, listening to her, after their parents had died. How often he had pushed and pushed and pushed, only to find her waiting for him to return – in whatever form that  _return_  took.

Lavellan clears his throat. “It began with Keeper Hawen implying that I wasn’t  _Dalish_  enough to be trusted because I was running around with a bunch of humans, and so he wanted me to jump through a series of very peculiar hoops to prove that I was trustworthy.”

“Go on,” Asharil says. And so he does.

*****

When Asharil finally leaves a few short days later, citing business with the clan and in Wycome, she holds her brother tight, for a moment, before standing back to examine him. Her eyes are bright, proud. “I’ll have another promise before I go, little brother,” she says finally, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind one of his ears.

“Yes?” He studies her, waiting for another insistence that he remain true to himself, that he stand fast, refuse to be changed – a promise he cannot make, because the world  _is_ change. Certainly, he can be himself, but he cannot stay fixed, like a point in time. He is water, a fast-flowing river, not an unyielding stone. He has, perhaps, always been this way: fluid, mutable, _more_.

Lavellan waits, as Asharil studies him.

Finally, she says, voice low and serious, “Don’t you  _even_ think about getting married without bringing Dorian home first. Andruil help me, I will hunt you both down and drag you to the Marches myself if I so much as catch a hint of that on the wind. I don’t care if you don’t believe in our gods, brother; you  _will_  have a Dalish hand-fasting.”

Behind them, Josephine coughs to cover up the undignified laugh that tears from her throat and he can imagine Dorian squawking in horror from his library perch in Skyhold. Lavellan laughs, but makes his promises, and then, quietly and calmly, Asharil leaves. Just like that, she’s gone. The sky above is painfully blue, the air cold and calm, and Lavellan feels as free and light as when he first left his clan to head south, except now that freedom isn’t twisted by the feeling that he ought to be different, feel different.

He is precisely where he ought to be, and in that is freedom.

*****

_Asharil, please observe: I am writing a letter. A letter for you. I have made a preemptive list of the things you may hear about my going-ons, so that you can hear the facts directly from the source with minimal embellishment. Firstly, I went to an especially grand masquerade, where we – we being Dorian, the Iron Bull, and Cassandra – were attacked first by ex-Chantry extremists and then by assassins hired by a very disgruntled merchant, who was cross that we had stopped sourcing some of our goods exclusively from him. Let me give you the details…_


End file.
